Charles stood by an outdoor fountain, icy water dripping down his chest.
The sun was just peeking up, painting the sky a pale gray, and the crisp morning air bit at his skin.
'Damn… so cold…'
Around him, other male servants bathed in silence, scrubbing their skin with rough rags and buckets of frigid water.
No one spoke to him, but their looks were sharp as knives—cold, hostile, or dripping with disdain.
Some snuck sideways glances, others glared outright, but Charles didn't care about that.
What he couldn't ignore, what was really killing him, was the cold.
'This is torture!' he thought, shivering as he dumped another bucket over his head.
The freezing water ran down his back, and he clenched his teeth to keep from yelping.
In real life, he always showered with hot water, cranking the heater until steam fogged up the bathroom.
It was one of his little luxuries after a long day of exams or an all-night gaming session.
But here, in this world, bathing was like stepping into a freezer.
'Who can live like this? This is inhuman!'
Charles eyed the empty bucket in his hands—a beat-up wooden thing with splintered edges. No decent soap, either. Just water and a rag that looked dirtier than he was.
Last night, after training in his room until his arms shook, they'd given him leftovers: a stale hunk of bread and a piece of rancid meat he could barely choke down.
'Leftovers,' Charles growled in his head. 'Literal scraps. What's next? Sleeping on the floor with the dogs?'
Escaping wasn't just about dodging Rian's tragic fate anymore. If he kept living like this—cold water, lousy food—he'd lose his mind.
Charles shook his head to shake off the gloom.
'No, no, stop,' he told himself, taking a deep breath. 'At least I figured something out training last night.'
After cranking out push-ups in his room, Charles had felt that static again—that electric tingle in his fingertips.
He'd tried unleashing it like he did in the fight, picturing lightning blasting from his hands.
But nothing happened.
Every time he pushed, the energy flowed downward, like it was sinking into the floor, then vanished.
'No lightning showed up. It just… goes,' he thought, frustrated.
Charles dried off with a coarse cloth that barely soaked up the water, trembling as the chilly air nipped at his damp skin.
Around him, the other servants' murmurs started picking up.
"Heard he's fighting today," one whispered—a scrawny guy with messy hair.
"Against whoever, they'll tear him apart," another shot back, snickering.
"He's always been useless. Bet he passes out before it even starts."
Charles ignored them, letting out a sigh.
Word about the fight had spread fast, apparently.
He finished drying off and trudged back to his room, wet tunic sticking to his legs.
When he got there, he found a pile of clothes dumped on his bed. Another white tunic, supposedly clean, but yellowed stains along the edges gave away its history.
'Great, new clothes,' he thought sarcastically, shaking it out before slipping it on.
Next to the tunic was a folded letter on rough parchment.
Charles opened it and read:
[Rian Cole, you have two options. First: become Lira Cole's personal servant. Second: fight in two arena matches today. If you lose even one, you'll be demoted and sold as a slave. If you win both, you'll be promoted to official fighter. Head to Lira's room to confirm your choice and get the match times.]
Charles dropped the letter onto the bed and stared at the wall.
"Lira's servant or two fights…?" he mumbled, running a hand through his still-wet hair.
Being that bitter half-sister's servant sounded like a lifetime humiliation sentence to him.
"No way in hell," Charles thought, tossing the idea out almost instantly.
But the fights… that was another beast.
He didn't know who he'd be up against or how to control his power yet.
Lose, and they'd sell him as a slave. Win, and he'd climb the ranks…
It was a gamble, but…
A spark of excitement started buzzing through Charles's body.
'This is like hardcore mode,' he thought, a small grin tugging at his lips.
In video games, there was always that mode—tougher enemies, scarce resources, one slip-up and you're done.
Right now, he didn't have much to lose besides his freedom, so if he flubbed even one match, it'd be game over.
But if he won…
"It's my only shot," Charles muttered, finishing pulling on the tunic.